Lust in the Caribbean

by Noah Harris

  The Spaniard gasped and made a little choking cough.

  Thomas moved his head to indicate that they should approach. Osier looked around. Thomas could tell what was going on in his mind. The Spaniard lay directly in the shortest path to the bay, but the werebear didn’t want anything to do with anyone from the Guerrero. They had lost several men just for sitting next to them at the Hope and Anchor.

  On the other hand, this man had obviously escaped his pursuers and didn’t look like any real threat. It was doubtful this was bait for a trap, either. The man was too well-hidden.

  The moon continued to shine. Thomas looked up and saw the cloud cover had broken up from a uniform haze to a few puffy clouds lit up like spun silver in the tropical night. They would have no more darkness to cloak them on their way back to the Manhunter.

  Osier seemed to think the same thing, because he, too, looked up, then motioned for Thomas to follow him into the alley.

  Warily, they approached the Spaniard, who didn’t move or even raise his head at the sound of their approach. Thomas saw that the dark stain on the ground around the man was blood. The man’s shirt was dark, no doubt either red or black like the Spanish favored, and so he couldn’t see where the man was wounded. He didn’t need to be a doctor to know this man wouldn’t survive the night.

  They were almost upon him before the man noticed them. He didn’t start back in fear or try to grab his weapon—a long, keen blade at his hip—he merely looked up at them with an air of resignation.

  “Estoy muerto. A mi no puedes hacer nada.”

  Thomas knelt and placed a hand on his shoulder. He pulled a canteen from his belt and handed it to him. Everyone carried such an item when on shore in the tropics. To not would invite sunstroke. There was little water left in it, but this poor man was welcome to it all.

  Thomas helped him drink and let him drain the canteen. Once he was finished, the Spaniard lay back with a sigh.

  “Gracias, señor. ¿De donde eres? ¿Cual barco?”

  “Um, I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

  The Spaniard raised a trembling hand and pointed at himself, then at Thomas and Osier.

  “Estoy del barco de piratas Guerrero. ¿Y tu?”

  “Ah! We’re from the Manhunter.”

  The man let out a little chuckle. “Ah, los maricones. No pasa nada. Todo los marineros son maricones en un ocasión o otro.”

  Thomas and Osier looked at each other, unsure what the man was saying.

  The Spaniard slumped further down the wall. Thomas tried to lift him, but he waved him away.

  “He’s a goner. Let’s get out of here while we still can,” Osier said.

  The Spaniard fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small leather tube, which he handed to Thomas.

  “Aqui, para mis amigos los maricones. Buena suerte y gracias.”

  Thomas stared at it for a second, confused. Then realization dawned. It was the leather tube that the men who attacked the Spanish crew had been looking for.

  “What is this?” Thomas asked, waving the tube in front of the man’s face, hoping to make his meaning clear.

  But the Spaniard could answer no more questions in any language. He was dead.

  Osier started searching through the man’ pockets.

  “What are you doing?” Thomas asked.

  “No point his booty’s going to waste,” he replied, pulling out a coin purse. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you half. Let’s get somewhere where we can investigate what’s in that tube.”

  They hurried on, creeping through alleys and sprinting across empty yards, ears perked for any sound of movement, but it seemed the entire town had shut themselves up, waiting for dawn to bring some semblance of order to this secret settlement.

  They found an outhouse, and Osier led him inside. It stank and was cramped. The burly pirate took up most of the space. Thomas thought back to how many other times he’d been crowded in with someone inside an outhouse, and how very different a situation those times had been.

  Osier produced a tinderbox and the stub of a candle. After a few strikes of a piece of flint on a flat length of steel, the flying sparks ignited the tinder. Osier blew on it to bring up a flame, lit the candle, and shook out the tinder.

  Thomas popped open the leather tube and found a roll of parchment inside. He pulled it out and unrolled it.

  He and Osier gasped.

  It showed the outline of an island and a stretch of coastline along with a note saying“3.5° S. latitud.” Drawings on the map featured a bay marked “Bahía de los Tritónes” and a line of hills leading to a cave with an X inside of it.

  They stared at it for a full minute, neither of them speaking.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Thomas asked.

  “Yes,” Osier nodded gravely. “Yes, I do believe it is.”

  The werebear thought for a moment more, then continued.

  “I recall about a year ago, a Spanish treasure ship from the gold mines of Colombia Colony went missing. People said it was the Guerrero who got it, but they always denied they had. Perhaps they really did get that treasure ship, in which case…”

  Osier didn’t need to finish his sentence. The possibility shimmered and sparkled in Thomas’s imagination.

  “What do we do?” Thomas asked in a hushed voice.

  Osier took the map and the tube out of Thomas’s hands, returned it to the tube, and tucked it in his pocket.

  “We’ll keep quiet about this until we’re out to sea, and then we’ll tell the captain. We have to get away from this mess first. If that other crew, whoever they are, finds out we have this, we’re next.”

  “All right.”

  Osier turned to him. The movement pressed Thomas against the wall of the outhouse.

  “You need to keep quiet, understand? Don’t tell anyone, not Seamus, not even that German boy you are always panting after. I’ll handle this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s go.”

  They headed out. The bay was so close, they smelled the salty tang of the water and the raw, fishy stench of the cuttings the fishermen discarded on the beach. They were almost to the boat, almost home, and yet Thomas felt troubled. He had given up the tube and the map without a thought, falling back into his old habit of deferring to a more senior man on the ship as if he had power over him. He had even called Osier “sir,” something Captain Seawolf had expressly forbidden him to do.

  Thomas was thinking like a sailor, not a pirate.

  And he had lost possession of the map because of it.

  But he couldn’t worry about that now. They still had get to the ship.

  The bay appeared in view, and the moonlight glittered on the water. The two men proceeded with care, watching every shadow, until they were close enough to get a good look at the bay. From their vantage point hidden in a doorway, they could see all the ships moored in the bay and the fort on the hilltop, looming in black silhouette behind. All was quiet. A few lights twinkled aboard some of the ships. The Manhunter, however, was all dark.

  “What’s wrong over there?” Thomas asked in an all but inaudible whisper.

  “Battle stations, most like,” Osier whispered back. “They heard about our trouble. Some of the lads much have made it back.”

  “That’s good news, at least.”

  “The Guerrero is all dark, too,” Osier said, pointing to a dark bulk not far from the Manhunter.

  “But who attacked them, and us?”

  Osier shook his head. “That, I don’t know, but whoever it was, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  They studied the situation for a time. The avenues leading to the port were all broad to allow the passage of carts and were well-lit by the moon. There was not a trace of cloud in the sky now and, judging from the moon’s position, only a couple of hours of darkness left to the night.

  The houses and shops cast enough shadows that they might have been able to get close to the docks without being seen, but they would have to cross a w
ide stretch of open ground and the docks themselves, all bathed in moonlight. They could clearly see a crowd of about twenty men standing on the docks. Moonlight gleamed off breastplates and helmets. The Weasel liked to dress his men in Spanish armor.

  Thomas was about to suggest that they go up to the guards and explain the situation. They hadn’t been involved in the fight until they were attacked, after all. Then Thomas realized where he was. Even back home in Kent the local constabulary couldn’t always be trusted to see reason, and here he was in a pirate town. Avoiding the Weasel’s men was probably as important as avoiding the bloodthirsty crew that had come after them.

  Osier must have been thinking the same thing, because he led Thomas through alleys, cutting across several wide streets, to get to the northern edge of the bay, where the local fishermen had beached their boats. Several shacks dotted the beach above the tideline, but there was no movement.

  They tiptoed down to one of the more isolated boats, and after a quick look around, turned it on its keel, untied the moor line, and pushed it towards the water. The heavy wood made a loud grinding sound as it ran over the sand.

  “Hey!”

  A man ran out of the nearest shack, a harpoon in his hand. He raised it above his head, ready to throw.

  Osier pulled a pistol out of his pocket and cocked it.

  “Wait!” Thomas shouted, grabbing the gun. As he did so, Osier pulled the trigger and the sharp flint snapped down on Thomas’s thumb. He hissed as the stone dug into the flesh of his thumb.

  The fisherman paused, sizing them up.

  “Think of the noise. The guards will come running,” Thomas said to Osier.

  “You’ll make plenty of noise if I gut you with this harpoon, and the guards will find me filleting your hides,” the fisherman warned.

  Thomas grinned. Despite his humble station this fellow had iron in his bones.

  “We need to get back to our boat and we can’t go by way of the docks. You must have heard the fight,” Thomas explained. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a coin. In the half-darkness, he couldn’t see what it was, but it was a big one. He tossed it to the fisherman. “Take this as payment. We’ll send the boat back come morning. We have no use for such a vessel beyond tonight.”

  The fisherman paused, obviously weighing his chances of winning this fight as opposed to his chances of Thomas speaking the truth. After a moment he asked, “From what ship do you hail?”

  “We can’t tell you that,” Osier rumbled. “Be glad my shipmate has a kind heart. Too kind by half.”

  “And you’re too foolish by half,” Thomas replied. Osier shot him a baleful glance that made Thomas regret his words.

  “Begone,” the fisherman said, picking up the coin and biting it to test the metal. “I’ll tell no one I saw you and simply report my boat stolen. If it doesn’t get back to me by noon on the morrow, I’ll tell all.”

  “Fair enough,” Thomas said.

  They pushed out into the water, and Osier picked up the oars. Soon, they were well into the bay, Osier’s strong back and arms working the oars like no other man Thomas had ever seen.

  They glanced around the bay. They were clearly visible on the water. If the harbor guards wanted to send out a boat after them, they’d be in trouble, but perhaps they wouldn’t chase down a boat if they didn’t know its occupants. Moreover, Osier and Thomas had a good head start.

  “You were right to be cautious,” Osier said after some time. “But the next time you grab a weapon of mine, I’ll pop your head off and fuck your neck, you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Thomas replied, cursing himself when he heard how cowed he sounded.

  “And remember what I said about that map. I’ll talk to the captain and take care of it.”

  “All right.”

  Thomas had to force the words out of his mouth. Suspicion welled up in him, as did fear, for they were alone on this boat. What would stop Osier from overpowering him and tossing him overboard? He could tell everyone back on the Manhunter that Thomas had been killed in the fighting on shore. Thomas kept his hand close to his cutlass, watching Osier’s every move. If the bigger man let go of the oars, Thomas would cut him down. The man may have fought by his side, may have been riding him a few hours before, but Osier had a mean streak in him. Thomas saw that now. He had robbed the body of that poor dying Spaniard, and his first reaction when caught by the fisherman had been to try to shoot him down in cold blood. There was no trusting this man.

  A black curtain of depression came down over his feelings of fear and mistrust. He had found a home where he could be himself, and yet he hadn’t. Yes, he could make love to other men and not worry about being flogged to death. Yes, he could fall for Radbert and be troubled by nothing more than the lad’s half reluctance to show more intimacy. But in the end, he didn’t belong there. They were criminals, every one of them. Even the escaped slaves among them could not be excused of their crimes. Killing the slavers was more than justified, but how many innocent merchantmen and sailors had they killed as well?

  His surprise was almost as great as his relief when they reached the Manhunter without Osier trying to slit his throat and dump him overboard. He wondered if he had judged Osier too hastily. This man or creature or whatever he was had almost certainly saved his life, not to mention that he had opened up a whole new world of sensation. They were pirates in a dangerous situation, after all. Most, if not all of the crew of his ship, would have taken that map and considered killing that fisherman. He should not judge a pirate for thinking like one, especially now that he was one himself.

  “Who goes there?” came a voice from somewhere up in the darkened rigging. Thomas recognized the voice of Bill Husk, the marksman. He shuddered at the thought of that fellow’s keen eye looking down a gun barrel at him.

  “Hello, Bill. It’s Osier. Thomas is with me, as well. Call out, Thomas.”

  Thomas did so gladly. He was truly safe, at least for the moment.

  “Come aboard.”

  A rope ladder flew down, and several people looked over the railing. All carried guns.

  “Who made it back?” Thomas asked when he got aboard.

  “Jeff Archer and Matthew Trayer made it back all right. Hiro and Seamus are both hurt. Doctor Hartencourt says their wounds aren’t serious. Lafayette made it back but died not an hour ago.”

  Thomas slumped. The Frenchman had been good to him. The others who had died, although he had not known them as well, had been fine shipmates, too. One or two had been fine lovers.

  His mind was awhirl with confused thoughts and emotions. Although he didn’t feel a part of this crew, although he felt he was an actor playing a role that he had no choice but to perform, he felt for these men.

  Captain Seawolf stomped up, clapped Thomas on the shoulder, and gave Osier a hug. “Good to see you got back. How fared you?”

  Osier gave a short account of their adventures, leaving out finding the dying Spaniard and the gift he had given them. Thomas’s eyes narrowed. Osier had said that he would tell the captain. Wouldn’t this be the time? He had been right to suspect the werebear.

  Should he say something? Perhaps this wasn’t the best of circumstances. Perhaps he should wait until morn and talk with the captain privately. He knew that Osier was one of his oldest companions and closest allies on the ship. Telling the captain that Osier was lying to everyone would be a delicate task.

  Exhaustion weighed him down like an anchor. He took his leave of the crew and stumbled down to his bed. This whole affair could wait until the morrow.

  At dawn, he was awoken by the sound of cannon fire.

  Thomas and the rest of the crew grabbed their weapons and scurried onto the deck, thinking they were under attack.

  What they saw instead was a full-scale battle going on in the bay.

  The Guerrero, which had been anchored next to them, had moved off near the opening of the bay and was trading fire with a sloop one of the pirates called the Conqueror. The crew of the C
onqueror was trying to put out its sails and catch the breeze blowing out of the harbor while trading shots with the Guerrero. The Spanish ship had put out all its sails and had obviously gotten a jump on the other ship, maneuvering at an angle behind the Conqueror so that it could bring its full broadside to bear while the other ship could only use its two rear guns.

  Another broadside thudded from the Spanish ship. Water spouted all around the Conqueror as two balls made direct hits, punching additional holes into the rear of the ship, which was already half in ruins.

  “Looks like the Spanish are taking their revenge,” Seamus shouted over the din. His shirt was off and a wide bandage swathed his midsection.

  The Conqueror, although taken by surprise, was not out of the fight yet. With its sails unfurled and the rudder still intact, it began to slowly turn to bring its guns to bear for a broadside.

  “The Spanish will get another two broadsides before they’re in position,” Captain Seawolf said, studying the fight with his spyglass.

  “You didn’t see how many got killed on shore,” Osier said. “They’re undermanned for sure.”

  “Shall we help them? They killed some of our men,” someone said.

  “It’s not our fight,” said another.

  “They made it our fight!” Thomas shouted, suddenly angry. Lafayette was dead, as were several other good men.

  As if in response, they saw several plumes of smoke from the stone fort atop the hill. The cannonballs all fell short, but it was obvious that they were aiming at the Conqueror.

  “Now what?” Thomas asked.

  “The Weasel is enforcing his law,” Seamus said. “Everyone is supposed to keep the peace when on shore. They, too, must have found out it was the crew of the Conqueror who was responsible for last night’s bloodbath.”

  A moment later, more gray plumes rose from the earthworks on the other side of the bay’s entrance, half hidden behind the Conqueror. The gunners badly misjudged the range, and the cannonballs sailed far over the Conqueror and landed in the sea so close to the Manhunter that those on deck felt the spray of the water when they hit.